The Wedding Dress (38 page)

Throughout the day, the Indians continued to make their swooping attacks on the wagons. Inside the circle of wagons, while one group of men crouched to return their fire, the others were digging an entrenchment.

Warm bodies, tiny limbs pressed against Rebecca. A breath touched her cheek. “Miz Jacobson, why don't the Indians go home so we can sleep in our own wagon. I'm thirsty.”

The sun rose higher and seared the moisture from the grass. A sip of water was shared, a bit of bread. Children were hushed and babies nursed. Still the women and children huddled close, trying to read courage and hope in each other's faces. But Rebecca had to turn away, fighting the night-time thoughts that shadowed her.

Liz Fancher was speaking, “It's certain we can't go another day without water. There's not a speck left in this jug, and the bucket's been empty since yesterday. We need water for the wounded.”

Another woman whispered, “They're working now to send out children with a white flag to get water. They don't shoot children.”

“No!” Rebecca cried, “no, they mustn't—” Liz's eyes warned, and she dared say no more.

As the day passed slowly, Rebecca recalled the words that had drifted up to her as she lay in the Morgans' loft. Was it possible that she had really heard those words?
Avenge. Let the Indians do it, so's there's no blood guilt about the women and children. Listen to council. Live your religion. Avenge the Prophet.

Blood atonement. Sharp and clear came the picture of Brother Johnson. She could hear his shovel strike the stones as he lifted the earth from his own grave. Andrew. There was that question again.

Timmy's mother was comforting him. “Never you mind. Those people in Cedar, like as not, have heard about this, and they'll come rescue us. There's lots of people around here; they'll help.”

The words burst from Rebecca, “You don't know—” All eyes focused on her. The children were hanging on her words. Trusting. She was silent now, turning away.

The days were losing significance. The sun went down, and the coolness eased the thirst; fretful sleep eased the hunger.

Silent shadows slipped close to the wagon. “Are you safe? Many's been shot; a number won't make it. There's no way we can slip down for water. Be brave; help'll come.”

Morning came and Rebecca must hide her face, stifle her fears. “God, Jesus,” she whispered against the canvas. “Please, the children are so young.”

An edge of desperation was moving through the company. The last of the water was carried to the wounded.

Rebecca shook her head sadly as the three men prepared to slip out of the camp. They were going to Cedar for help. “It's a waste,” she mourned as she cuddled little Annie Barker against her. Annie's father had been wounded yesterday. Now Timmy's father had been shot. Rebecca reached down to pat the shoulder of the little boy huddled miserably against her while the babe within her stirred against her ribs.

“Timmy, how would you like to hear a story?” His expression was blank as he turned his head toward the sounds of battle.

Dusk was deepening as the Reverend Harper crawled between the wagons, whispering encouragement to the women and children. Rebecca asked, “What's become of the men who went to Cedar?” He avoided her eyes. As she started to speak, he hastily interrupted.

“Mrs. Evans sent this bit of bread for the children. Be brave, sister.”

Behind Rebecca there was a muffled sob, but she didn't turn. She leaned wearily against the rib of the wagon, and little Timmy reminded, “Pa says stay down.”

When the sun was gone a cool wind swept across the meadow, whistling through the trees. Rebecca could hear the gurgling water, and she licked her parched lips.

“Rebecca,” Liz Fancher was speaking cautiously, “doesn't it seem to you that it's been a long time since we've heard the Indians?”

“Yes, it does.” She sighed with relief, but tried to conquer hope.

She was dozing when she heard the babble of voices. A call swept across the meadow with its answering chorus. “It's help! Someone's coming with a flag.”

Timmy hugged Rebecca, and they crowded to the end of the wagon to see. There were two men, three. The darkness wasn't revealing all, but a shadowy figure was led into the circle of wagons. The elation seemed to still, die. The voices deepened.

A man left the group and came to the wagon. It was Mr. Fancher. “These men are from Cedar. They say the only way we can safely get past the Indians is to leave everything here except enough necessities to see us through and then walk the thirty miles back to Cedar. We're to go unarmed, marching with the women and children in front. There'll be wagons carrying the babies and the wounded.”

“Charles, that doesn't sound like a wise thing to do. How'll we last through such a long walk with so many little ones?”

“Who are the men?” Rebecca asked in a low voice. “Might be I should talk to 'em.”

“No,” he said sharply. “For now it's better if they don't know about you.”

He turned to his wife, speaking softly and shaking his head, “It doesn't sound smart at all; but I've been outvoted, and we'll go.”

“The risk is worse than staying,” Rebecca said heavily. “You don't—”

He cut through her words, “The only thing we have left is hope, Rebecca; don't snatch that from us.”

In the darkness wagons creaked, and terrified horses snorted. There was the sharp cry of the wounded as they were lifted into the first wagon. Children and babies were taken from their mothers. Whimpering with fright, they were bundled into the wagon along with supplies. The creaking of the wagon was fading as the silent lines of women and older children took their places.

Now it was their turn. As they fumbled their way down the trail, back through the cut, walking past trees and bushes, Rebecca became conscious of dark shadows joining them. She pressed her knuckles against her lips to quiet their trembling.

From the sounds of heels striking stone, Rebecca guessed a multitude was behind her, but she dared not look. Her heart was pounding with a heavy, slow beat. The pale gleam of moonlight brightened the scene, revealing shapes. She brushed at the perspiration dampening her face and tried to calm herself.

Suddenly there was a shout: “Do your duty!”

The shadows erupted into life. Dark forms ran from the trees and bushes. From behind her shots rang out, and the meadow was filled with screams of terror. “No, oh, no! Please!”

Dark forms streaked toward her. Rebecca plunged away from the trail, running desperately. Behind her, screams were becoming cries of agony. The thudding of hooves approached in the darkness ahead of her. Suddenly a horse glistened in the moonlight. A rider scrambled from the saddle, and the light touched his face.

“Andrew! Oh, Andrew!” At the moment of recognition she was seeing him turn and kneel. Moonlight touched the muzzle of his rifle, and she stopped. Her hands had been outstretched. Now they reached instinctively for her breast. With a sigh she dropped her hands and waited. How could she have expected anything else?

The rifle kicked backward as a knife of light leaped from its muzzle and the noise of a shot carommed among the trees. A hammer-like blow against her right ribs jerked Rebecca backward. She stumbled and fell face-first on the rocky ground.

The man stared for a moment, then fumbled to reload. Finished, he began to raise the rifle to his shoulder, but Rebecca's body was limp and quiet. Satisfied that his mission was complete, he stood and reached for his horse.

The lone rider was heading westward. In front of him the mountains' dark peaks funneled off to the south. He reined his horse and listened to the raucous cry of a crow echo through the morning air. Joshua's breath had frosted his beard, and his hands were stiff with cold.

Autumn color had faded into the gray and dismal browns of November. Today bare branches whipped the frosty air. Narrowing his eyes against the sun, he studied the clouds sweeping north along the edge of the mountains. He touched his horse's neck. “Old girl, we'll avoid that storm by cutting west here, but I don't reckon I know where this road leads.” He absently patted her as his eyes continued to scan the countryside. “It appears to be a meadow, and if it just keeps rolling gentlelike, clear to Nevada, we've an easy trip ahead.” The horse responded to his nudge and turned down the narrow trail.

Joshua knew he shared the trail a moment before the horseman appeared. He pulled aside and waited. The man approaching was dark. His broad shoulders were covered by a great coat as dark as the beard that touched it.

As he rode slowly toward Joshua, he pushed his hat away from his face. His blue eyes were watchful, measuring. He stopped his tall roan in the middle of the trail. As the horse pawed restlessly, he said, “I thought I was seeing things for a minute. That's a nice looking buckskin you're riding. Did you buy her to match your britches and your hair?” His grin was an even slash of white in the dark beard.

Joshua tensed and frowned. The man's friendly manner struck an uneasy response from him. He tilted his hat a shade closer to the bridge of his nose. “I don't rightly guess I gave it any more thought than you did when you picked your coat.”

There was a pause, and the man's grin vanished. When he spoke his voice was heavy. “You lost? Not many ride this way.”

“I'm looking for a shortcut west.” He gestured toward the dark clouds. “Straight south I'll run into snow.”

“Could be. But this road dead-ends at Mountain Meadows.” He paused, and wary eyes searched Joshua's face. The years of traveling had taught Joshua to keep his thoughts to himself. The muscle along his jawline tightened as he ducked his head.

“Then point me on my way. I want the fastest road out of Utah.”

“Better head south for the Clara, then west.” The eyes were still wary. “What brings you this way?”

Joshua hesitated, and tension crept through him. Despite the warning every instinct gave, he couldn't resist one last try. He shoved his hat back and admitted, “I'm looking for a friend. When I pass through the territory I always ask. Just a friend, but I like to keep track of my friends.”

“What's his name?”

“Her—her maiden name was Wolstone. I don't know the married name. Rebecca Wolstone from Illinois. Ever hear of her?”

The blue eyes darkened and his mouth twitched fleetingly. Slowly, the man raised his hat and smoothed his hair. “Yes,” he paused, “I've heard of Rebecca Wolstone. You can quit looking for her. She's dead.” His eyes were emotionless, but as the man continued to talk his eyes held Joshua's. His voice was flat, low. “Rebecca wasn't one of the sturdy Saints. It's unfortunate, but the kind heavenly Father knows best.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was heavy as if he spoke almost against his will. “We Saints don't fight the will of the Lord, although at times we reckon it to be harsh, harsh as the land we call Zion.”

He nudged his horse, and the restless beast moved closer to Joshua. The man pointed. “Just head toward that cut in the mountains. The trail's easy to spot, and it'll take you direct to Clara.”

Joshua slumped in the saddle. As he rode he was scarcely conscious of the lowering clouds, the swirling flakes, and the bite of cold.

The horse picked her way along the mountain road, as aimlessly as if she no longer carried the rider on her back. It was late in the afternoon when Joshua's emotions reached the depths, and once again he was becoming aware of life and deepening cold when he heard the horse behind him.

This time it was an Indian pony. The blanket-swathed figure moved close to Joshua and halted. The blanket was dropped and the bronze figure straightened and peered through the snow. “Mormonee lost?”

“No, I'm heading for the Clara. I think I'm on the right trail. I'm not a Mormon.” The Indian was studying him.

“Cold. Bad.” He pointed to the darkening sky; then he beckoned, gestured, as he reached to tug at the buckskin's reins. “Come.” He motioned toward the sky again, and pulling the blanket close, he walked his horse ahead. Now Joshua realized the Indian was offering to lead him.